slave to the wage

Something about falling asleep with a few tears glistening over something not worth crying over, a miniscule memory, the dreary, blurry past. It's about waking up and having your quiet demeanored morning routine stirred by a messy father with his toaster, his stove on, crumbs from toast, jelly dripping off a blunt knife onto the counter. Not wanting to deal with "Good morning, how are you?" You rather rage silently in your head about how you have a set restriction to go about mornings, make two pieces of plain toast, gulp down a small glass of juice, grab coffee and let it sit to cool down while I brush my crumbs into my palm, throw into sink, throw dishes into dishwasher, unplug toaster, be tidy. I have no time to wait around for him to be sloppy in my environment that does not want human quality conversation. The day is gray, the air is chill, the clothes are too slutty for your mother waiting in the car as I sit in the passenger seat moaning over her nagging, apply masacara, pucker lips, apply plum lipstick in the mirror on the visor, ignore her voice underneath music. In class, I sit near a boy with braces, yellow food stuck inbetween the metal wires, he smiles anxiously as we are the only ones in a row of 20 present, his bottom lip is pierced twice with black piercings. I lay back in my seat, fidget through my things and hope to god there isn't group work, as it is always an awkward situation. It is individual work, thankfully but he makes effort to brush past in the compact rows against sheer leggings. I watch the clock to my right like a hawk on its prey, it is over, onwards to the next class, pass through as the teacher assistant mentions it's Thanksgiving, no one cares. The next class is almost the same. Afterwards, mother is outside, I can see her from behind the windshield shaking her head at her skanky daughter. I get in, she is not in a good mood because I am a bitch. We open another bank accountfor my extra grants and I overpower her as she tries to control more of my life, I interject and tell the man it is my money from the government and to listen to me. We all agree eventually, I am given a new account for student funds or something like that, we continue home. In the turning lane, a car is broken down so conveniently and we have to stall behind a school bus full of obnoxious tweensters who take every oppurtunity to wave, make faces and rude gestures at us. I laugh nervously, but I am annoyed, I pray for the light to change so I can disappear.

I am here now, I am mad. It is my first night of Thanksgiving break and I should be a beer down already, yes at five to five p.m, a beer in. But I am sitting here with lukewarm coffee and a day old half eaten burrito. Nothing is sacred today, I love my sacredness of my daily routines of anxiously awaiting your arrival online or your already present name appear on the screen. But you have to do family things whereas I don't even celebrate holidays other than with you and in the past- friends. Drinking on rooftops, bashing each other into the shingles blasting music. But tonight, I willsay I sm focused to do my studying and my cleaning and painting and everything else but I will procrastinate. Only because I want to be by your side where I feel at most myself, comfortable, safe, secure, content beyond recognition. Perhaps tomorrow.